


The End of the Storm

by kereia



Category: North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 09:15:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8885269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kereia/pseuds/kereia
Summary: It takes John the better part of ten years to clear the debts his father left him. A decade filled with denial comes to an end.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rekall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rekall/gifts).



> Dear Rekall,
> 
> I wish you a happy holiday season. I hope you and your family are safe and well and will have a wonderful 2017.

Five hundred eighty shillings.

He carefully placed the coin on top of the stack, taking care not to disturb the ones beneath it.

The candle flickered in the cold air, and he suppressed a shiver. The window frames were old; the wood chipped, and the panes almost blind with soot, which even the most vigourous scrubbing could not erase. They provided little protection from the winter storm outside, nor did the threadbare curtain manage to dampen the voices from the other side off the room.

His mother and sister were arguing again. Their voices were low, but John could hear the anger in them... the distant rumble of thunder. It happened less often these days. Not like it was in the beginning. Not like the shouting, the quick loss of temper, the grief and the fury that had accompanied the first weeks after his father's suicide. His sister had been very young then, and he wasn't sure if she'd understood, if her comprehension encompassed anything beyond their abrupt reduction in circumstances… the loss of her home, her clothes, the simple warmth of the fire during the winter days, the replacement of oil lamps by a single candle.

His gaze strayed to the flickering light, his mind calculating how much time was left on the stump. Half an hour at most, he judged. He picked up another coin, rubbed his thumb across the surface, and placed it carefully on the table next to the others.

Back when he had been a child, laughter had been a more familiar sound. He remembered warmth and light and carol singing, the hint of a smile on his mother's stern face, a glow to her cheeks that belied her reserved nature. His father holding John's baby sister in his arms, a tall man telling taller tales of wild adventures on the sea.

But this had been long ago. So long, that John often wondered if the memories were true or if nostalgia had distorted them into fantasy.

Six hundred shillings.

Gingerly, he pushed the stack backwards, aligning it with the others into a precise row. He leaned back in his rickety chair, and the wood creaked under his shifting weight. The voices beyond the curtain subsided. Within moments they were replaced by the sounds of cutlery being shifted, and the table being set. Picking up another coin, he rubbed his thumb across the surface again.

Back then, when he'd been in school, this had been a mere bauble. Easily, thoughtlessly spent on sweets and trinkets or betting on silly toad races when he and his school fellows met by the pond behind the dormitory. He'd never really thought about money until it had been taken away. The bank had taken their house to settle his father's debts. A public auction had seen to the liquidation of their furniture, their jewelry and most of their clothes. And still, after everything had been taken and sold, so much debt had remained.

Former employees had knocked at their door, a door that was no longer solid oak, polished and oiled, but an assembly of weathered planks barely fit to provide a barrier between their single, dingy room and the bleak streets of Milton. They had asked, and some had begged or demanded wages, money that they had earned, money that they needed to feed their families, and money that neither John nor his mother could give them. Tradesmen had written letters detailing debts, and with every letter he'd read and every person he'd met the knots in John's stomach had wound tighter and tighter.

It was a terrible thing not being able to grieve for one's father because one was too angry with him. And it was equally awful to be ashamed of that anger. For the first few days he had simply been overwhelmed. A state of silent panic had settled around him like a heavy cloak, which dragged on his shoulders with every step he took. He'd felt its weight as he'd watched his father laid to rest. He'd felt it as he settled his family into the small room that was to be their new home. He'd felt it drag on him every single day at the drapers shop, earning, coin by precious coin, enough to squirrel away the small fortune he needed to pay what was owed.

Seven hundred shillings.

Almost there.

He'd paid off the outstanding wages first. This had taken the first two years of what he'd come to think of as his new life. The following four years have been spent paying off the debts owed to the local tradesmen. And in those four years, and encouraged by his mother and her abilities who run a household with ruthless efficiency, he had slowly, tentatively, dared to make plans for a future that lay beyond the repaying of his father's recklessness.

Building a life of his own was not something he could accomplish alone. He had his mother, of course. An unwavering force of support, like a compass pointing due north. But to earn a living that would raise him and his family from poverty he needed connections to tradesmen, to bankers, to the very people his father had let down. And so he poured all of his efforts into building a reputation that was separate from his father's. The reputation of a man who could be trusted. The reputation of a man of honor and integrity, who had learned from his father's mistakes. A man who did not trust others easily, but who could be relied upon to keep his word.

Seven hundred seventeen shillings.

Well over thirty five pounds. A small fortune. And it would pay off the last remaining debt. It had taken him four years, seven months and one week to save up.

The candle was almost burned down now. In a few minutes, it would burn out, casting him, the room and the money in darkness. But for now, the flame sparkled off the coins, making him see beyond the dirty patina that covered most of them. He opened the ledger that had been his constant companion for the past eleven years. In lieu of the pen and ink he could not afford, he extracted a pencil from a small wooden box situated at his elbow. The columns on the page held names and numbers. All of them had been crossed out. All but one.

In the dimming light the ghost of a smile touched John's face, and with a decisive stroke he crossed out that last name.

The candle died.

Darkness fell.

But with it came a gentle glow from the window. The storm had passed, and snow fell silently onto the town. It would turn to dark sludge when it met the ground, but from his seat at the table John could not see the street. His gaze was turned toward the sky, were snowflakes and moonlight painted pictures of the past.

Closing his eyes, John took a deep breath. He smelled cooked meat and spices. A small indulgence for their Christmas dinner. The only indulgence, really, that they allowed themselves each year. 

Two more years.

Two more years, and he'd have enough funds to start a business of his own. Two more years, and meat and spices would no longer be an indulgence. They would have meat every day. And fruit. They would have separate rooms and a kitchen. They would have clothes... sturdy, warm fabrics, and new shoes. There would be a fire in the grate every morning and evening to chase away the cold. Warm blankets. And candles and lamps in every room.

Two more years, and they would have a future.

 

The end.

 


End file.
